


King of His Satellite Castle

by soyouwannaplaywithmagick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allergies, Alternate Universe, Doctor John, Doctor/Patient, Isolation, M/M, Patient Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyouwannaplaywithmagick/pseuds/soyouwannaplaywithmagick
Summary: Having suffered from a deadly illness since he was young, Sherlock lives alone in an egg-shaped house with his only frequent visitor being his doctor, John Watson, who looks after his health. All has gone smoothly for years, their relationship comfortable and familiar, until Sherlock announces his desire to experience one of the fundamental aspects of life. Eventual johnlock.





	1. "I want to have sex."

**Author's Note:**

> “Satellite  
> Headlines read  
> Someone’s secrets you’ve seen  
> Eyes and ears have been  
> Satellite dish in my yard  
> Tell me more, tell me more  
> Who’s the king of your satellite castle?”
> 
> –“Satellite” by Dave Matthews Band

John Watson tucked the newspaper under his arm like he did every day after taking his lunch. It was time to leave the hospital, and he had to admit, being able to do so in the middle of the day was probably the best perk imaginable. Right around two or three, when it started to get warm, he used to be able to feel the agitation of the patients and staff alike. Of course, that was a long time ago. He rarely, if ever, stayed past noon now, as his private patient allowed him the ability to work only when he wanted and to return home early enough to avoid the evening rainstorms. It was a pretty cushy job if you could get it.

Still, John never considered the concept that he wasn’t working hard enough for his money (though other staff members at the hospital did). In fact, he thought most patients would be willing to pay more for the kind of rapport that built up over a nearly seventeen-year-old doctor-patient relationship than they even would for top-notch medical care. That was what he supposed he had with his private patient, anyway. Rapport.

Leaving his office and waving goodbye to the nursing staff, he could see the envy in the eyes of his colleagues and still didn’t mind it. He had quite a bit to do before he could make it home tonight, and he was ready for the task. First thing was first: buy cupcakes.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

As he pulled up outside the strange, white building where his patient lived, he sighed, wondering if the boy inside had already seen him from the large, hermetically sealed windows at the top of the egg-shaped home. He reached across the seat and grabbed the bakery box he’d placed there earlier. He thought of the woman’s puzzled face as he’d asked for freshly baked cakes with specific instructions he’d produced from his trouser pocket: non-dairy, gluten-free, and no synthetic ingredients.

“And please wear gloves,” he’d said before stepping aside to watch her make them. She looked offended that he would believe she wouldn’t, but Dr. Watson had been through this before.

He held the box firmly under his arm like he previously had the paper and started up the twisted walkway toward the house. His patient had inherited quite a bit of money after his parents’ death, and his brother, who rarely visited, had been clear about the instructions for building the home. However, it had been his young patient’s idea to make it white and smooth, an alien looking thing and an eyesore. It made one uncomfortable to look at it for too long. That came as no shock to John when he was certain he knew deep down that was exactly how the boy felt.

Sherlock Holmes had been born with a rare disease, a near-deadly allergy to almost everything. When he had been young, his mother had looked after him fiercely, and he had even gone to school for a few months. John remembered seeing him in his little uniform when he was a boy and John had only just finished his residency. But after Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had died, Sherlock and Mycroft both felt it was in the younger Holmes’ best interest that he were homeschooled and able to abide somewhere that didn’t put him at risk or require round-the-clock care standing by. Just Dr. John, who was to visit every day.

And that was how the last ten years had been. John pressed the doorbell for entrance and typed in the code. The front door hissed open, and he stepped inside the house.

He placed the cupcakes aside as the door closed behind him and went to remove his clothes. The main room was sterile, white, and, perhaps, would have been disconcerting to some, but John was very familiar with its purpose. He ignored the cameras on the ceiling and stripped bare before stepping into the shower that stood cattycorner to the door.

The water was piping hot, but John was used to that too. He ducked his head under the spray and shook it from side to side. Grabbing the soap, he scrubbed every inch of his body and ducked under again. He washed his hair because it was necessary, but he told himself he was doing it because of the importance of day and the nice smell of the shampoo. Finally, when he was finished, he stepped out and went to put on the fresh pair of scrubs that were always there waiting for him in the machine. Running his hands through his hair, he smelled gardenia and papaya and he relaxed slightly.

_Seventeen’s a big one_ , he thought and then immediately realized he was practicing his conversation with his patient before it could begin. _Are you excited?_

He could see Sherlock’s incredulous face even now, his eyes full of annoyance and brilliance. _What is there to be excited about? Another day is another and another._

John sighed again and went to check on the cupcakes again. They seemed pristine. She’d done a good job. It was a shame they wouldn’t be able to eat much of them.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson” came the voice from above and John looked straight up at the camera with a pleasant smile.

“Good afternoon, Sherlock. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you. Shall I let you in?”

“Please.”

The door to the stairs opened, also with a hiss, and John climbed them in gentle, padded feet. In addition to the shower and the change of clothes, he wore slippers while upstairs with Sherlock, which would likely be just another perk to his colleagues. As he entered the second floor, he looked around for his patient and noticed he was nowhere to be seen. That was normal though. Sherlock liked to be found.

John walked past the monitors that showed Sherlock the entire grounds around his egg-shaped home as well as the entrance, the various upstairs rooms, and probably a few other places too. John remembered Sherlock once receiving an angry phone call from Mycroft where his brother told him if he “didn’t stop patching into secured video feeds, he would be tried for treason.” He continued to walk past Sherlock’s bedroom and the bath and then found himself turned around again toward the dining room. The home and its shape had that effect.

He stood in the dining room and glanced at the table, noticing the many papers that littered the space. He assumed the boy was embroiled in yet another case, as he offered his time and talents to Scotland Yard’s finest in order to solve some of the most puzzling investigations thrown their way. It wasn’t like Sherlock could exactly go out to crime scenes or anything, though he could glean quite a lot from a livestream or a photograph. John knew it bothered him that he could never _really_ be part of the action, but he’d explained it to his patient a hundred times, especially very sternly when he’d been ten and had escaped the egg house to go look at a dead body up close.

“It’s dangerous, Sherlock,” John had lectured him. “Your body doesn’t work like other people’s and that’s why we take so many special precautions. You could have died yourself.”

Finally, John heard a noise from the kitchen and walked in to find Sherlock sitting on the counter with his hands tucked under each of his thighs. John noticed the way the boy’s sleeves seemed too short and smiled.

“You’re getting too big for that shirt. And those trousers.”

Sherlock shrugged. “If I get rid of them, I’ll just have to get used to something else.” Sherlock cocked his head to one side and sucked on his lower lip briefly before letting it go. “They’re blue. I can smell the dye from here.”

“Yes. They’re blue. But the baker assured me that everything is very natural and safe.” John placed the box down on the counter. “Just to be sure, though, you’ll want to start with a small bite.”

“And end with one,” Sherlock said, and John rolled his eyes while providing his patient with a small nod. He reached into the drawer next to Sherlock’s dangling legs and pulled out a box of candles. They had been there as long as the house had; there was never a need to buy another box. Sherlock watched him as he lit one with the matches that were also inside the box and placed it in one of the cupcakes.

The boy looked down at the flickering candle, and as he was almost once every day, John was struck by how much older he seemed than his years. Given the circumstances, it didn’t surprise the good doctor, but he had also known Sherlock for a long time and, as such, would have naturally dismissed any run-of-the-mill psychiatric evaluation of the boy.

“Sherlock’s special,” he would have said, had anyone tried to tell him different.

“Many happy returns, Sherlock,” John said now.

For a moment, he was very quiet, but then as he stared at the candle, Sherlock suddenly murmured, “Oh there will be. Just as happy as today.”

His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, and void of self-pity. It made John want to cry.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

After as much of the cupcakes that could be eaten had been and John had attempted to watch Sherlock for any signs of an outbreak without Sherlock noticing (though of course Sherlock noticed), they sat together in the living room, John enjoying a cup of tea as Sherlock crouched on the sofa beside him, wiggling his toes. John sighed and looked the boy over.

“Is there anything you want?” he finally asked. “For your birthday, I mean.”

“I know what you meant.”

John drew in breath sharply then sighed again. Sometimes, Sherlock was rude, but John was quite used to it.

“Well?” John asked again with a soft eyebrow raise, as if to say that people who were rude more than once didn’t receive any birthday presents. Sherlock just shrugged.

“There must be something you want.” For the first time that day, John started to worry that he’d been missing signs of a medical issue, not physical but psychological. Was his patient depressed?

Sherlock glanced at him with his large, seafoam eyes over his own knees, and John breathed in again as their gazes met. He couldn’t do with any of Sherlock’s deductions today, and honestly, he had just wanted to do something kind. Offer the boy a gift bought with the incredible salary he was paying him. What was so wrong with that?

“You slept on the sofa again last night,” Sherlock said. “Had a row with the wife?”

John gave him a tight smile and murmured, “Yes, very good. But everything is better now.” Even though it wasn’t. Sherlock wasn’t buying it anyway.

“Is there a reason you’ve never brought her to meet me?” he asked. “You think she won’t like me.”

“Now, stop it. You’re just changing the subject.” John put his tea cup down on the coffee table and fixed his patient with his most withering, doctor stare, the one that said, “I don’t care how tired you are, Mr. Peterson, we can’t let you leave this hospital until you get up and walk on your own two feet!”

“Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock bit down very softly on his lower lip. It was then that John had another revelation: the boy did want something and was afraid to ask for it.

“C’mon, Sherlock, just… tell me what it is.”

Sherlock’s gaze locked with his again, and he was only quiet for a moment longer before he said, matter-of-factly and in his deep, rolling voice, “I want to experience one of the fundamental aspects of life.”

“Which is?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows came together in annoyance. “Sex, of course.”

“Of course,” John echoed, but he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard him.

“I told myself the lack of it helped me focus on various other tasks, leading Lestrade by the hand through his cases and studying, but the truth is I could die at any minute and never have experienced it. I’m seventeen now and legal. And I want to have sex.”

“Sex.”

“Are you just repeating me because you’re in shock.”

“Shoc––No… No! I’m not in shock, I just… Sherlock…”

John’s voice became very quiet and serious. It was the same voice he’d used that day when Sherlock was ten, one he hardly ever needed to use on this particular patient, as Sherlock knew how severe his condition was. And yet, it was time to bring it out once again.

“Having… intercourse when suffering from a condition like yours would be extremely dangerous. You could die.”

Sherlock looked at him then with more determination than John had ever seen staring back at him from the other side of a mirror and stood.

“Well, you’d better make sure I don’t,” he said before exiting the room, his bare feet padding silently against the white, hypoallergenic carpet, leaving John alone.


	2. "No idiot. U would die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Satellite  
> In my eyes  
> Like a diamond in the sky  
> How I wonder”  
> -“Satellite” by Dave Matthews Band

“Sherlock, it’s completely reckless and totally unnecessary.”

“You’ll be putting yourself at so much risk. Please. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I know how smart you are. This isn’t the way, can’t you see that?”

“I’ve… I’ve got some… books you can read instead.”

“…Sherlock!” 

“I know you’re brilliant and superior, but I am your doctor, and you will mind me!”

“Do you think I’ve spent the better portion of my entire adult life trying to keep you breathing just to let you do something so… so utterly asinine?!”

It didn’t matter. Whatever John said to the boy, Sherlock’s face and resolve remained exactly the same. He had made up his mind, and after almost an hour of trying to change it, nothing could have been more irritating. Especially the fact that he expected John to just somehow “figure out” how to help him avoid dying, even though he was choosing to do something that, by all accounts, assured he would. It was a stupid risk, and Sherlock was undoubtedly going to put himself in the utmost danger because of it.

Finally, John said the only thing he could think of, the only thing that hadn’t already passed from his brain to his mouth without a filter.

“I mean, who’ve you even got in mind? It’s not like you’ve got anyone of your own.”

At this, Sherlock’s brow furrowed furiously, and he stood, turned away from John, and marched off into his room. Before John could even call his apology, he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door slam.

_Right. Yeah. That was a bad one on me._

~*~*~*~*~*~

John went home that night and cited paperwork as the reason he needed to retreat into his study for the better part of the evening. He and Mary didn’t usually eat together anymore anyway, just like they didn’t talk much. Whenever they did, it always turned into a fight.

Pouring himself a glass of Glenfiddich, John sat down at his computer (an old, woodburning thing) and thought about everything he already knew. He didn’t need to log on in order to get the information of which he was already painfully aware. Besides, he could just imagine what he’d find if he did search.

Yahoo! Answers

Question: Hi- I have a disease that makes my immune system basically nonexistent and causes me to experience allergic reactions to almost everything. I live in a house by myself, never go outside, and only ever see my doctor. My question is this: should I have sex?

Best Answer: No idiot. U would die.

No, John was a good enough doctor to know better, but his heart was big enough (and he’d known Sherlock long enough) to imagine that there might be a possibility for the boy to get what he wanted. You know, if he went against all his medical knowledge and allowed for his patient to do something that would almost absolutely get him killed.

John was reminded in that moment that Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, essentially _was_ the British government, or that was how Sherlock put it anyway. And even though they seemed to hate each other, Mycroft would most assuredly strip John of his license to practice medicine before, oh, say, locking him up in a Serbian prison if his baby bro were to die on the good doctor’s watch.

He stared at the black monitor on his computer and sighed. He took another sip and mulled it over some more.

_This is idiotic. You know exactly what to do. Why are you mulling anything?_

He answered his own question when he thought of Sherlock’s face after he’d said those words.

“It’s not like you’ve got anyone of your own.”

He’d looked so hurt, like someone had tugged out then crumpled his heart. John closed his eyes. Stupid. He was the stupid one.

Though he kept drinking, he put on his best research face and fired up the old machine in front of him. _Okay. Let’s think._

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next day, John stopped by Sherlock’s place again after work. He got the same glares from the other doctors and nurses he always did, but instead of going anywhere else first, he just went straight to the egg-shaped house. As a result, he got there a little earlier than he usually did, and he wondered if everything would be ready for him.

To his surprise, the extra set of scrubs, slippers, and everything else was already waiting, and he realized Sherlock was too smart for his own good.

_Well, he doesn’t know what I’ve been thinking. I could have come back here to try to talk him out of it again._

He stripped quickly and stepped into the shower. As he washed his hair under the scalding water, he thought about his plan again. The truth was it was still extremely risky. And stupid. And absolutely unnecessary. And Sherlock could still, in fact, die. But he couldn’t imagine having to face him after he’d wounded him so deeply with nothing but a cursory apology and the same, tired words.

John hopped out of the shower and had barely dressed again when he heard Sherlock’s voice.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson.”

John nodded because he knew Sherlock could see him even if he couldn’t see Sherlock. “‘Lo, Sherlock.”

“You’re early.”

“I am. Can I come up and take your vitals?”

There was a pause, and then he heard Sherlock’s voice come in flatly over the intercom. “I took them already.”

“I’d like to take them again if I may. And I’d like to talk to you.”

There was another pause, a longer one, before John heard the door above him hiss open. He climbed the stairs in his slippered feet before stepping into the living room. He didn’t see Sherlock anywhere, which was typical. John searched.

When he finally found him, the boy was sitting on his bed, clearly disinterested in John’s visit. He had one of his iPhones in his hand and seemed to be texting someone in Japanese.

“Sherlock. Would you mind putting the phone down? I want to talk.”

“I thought you wanted to take my vitals.”

“ _And_ talk.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from the phone. John sighed and came to sit beside him. He let a few moments go by before he finally said, “I’ll help.”

Sherlock glanced at him, then back at the phone. “You’ll help…”

“I’ll… I want… you to be happy.” John sniffed and looked away. “I don’t want you to miss out on one of the fundamental aspects of life.”

This time, Sherlock’s eyes moved to John and stayed on him.

“Really?”

“Yes. But it’s… it’s so completely dangerous, and if you wanted my opinion––”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said in a clipped, higher-pitched voice, the way he sometimes said “Bored.”

“––Yeah, well… Fine, but I’m giving it anyway because in my opinion as your doctor… and your friend… I think it’s really dangerous. I would recommend against it, whole-heartedly. But also as your doctor and your friend… I want to see you happy. I want…”

Here, John looked down at his slippers and flexed his hands which were sitting clasped together on his lap.

“I want to help you make some kind of human connection because, frankly, this is the first time you’ve expressed any interest in it.”

When John looked up at him, Sherlock just rolled his eyes and glanced back at his phone, although he wasn’t texting anymore.

“I already told you I shied away from anything in this vein because I felt it would allow me to better focus my mind on other things.”

John nodded slowly. “But… now you’ve changed it.”

“My mind, yes.”

John waited a moment, then asked. “So does that mean you never thought about sex until now?”

“I thought about it from time to time, but I didn’t let it consume my thoughts, and I always put it out of my head whenever it started to distract me.”

“You put it out of your head?”

“Yes.”

John pursed his lips. “Does this mean you’ve never masturbated?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it does, or yes, you’ve never––?”

“Yes, I’ve never.”

John took in a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. “Okay.” He turned to look at Sherlock who still wasn’t looking back at him. “I’m starting to think this isn’t about human connection anymore.”

Sherlock gave a small, low chuckle. “Hm. Why did you ever think it in the first place?”

John laughed. “I dunno. But I still want to help you. It’s just that you have to do it my way. Understand?”

For the first time in the conversation, Sherlock finally turned to look at John. His eyes always seemed to pierce straight through, to find the core of whatever John was really saying or what he really meant to say. John held his gaze fast and didn’t back down, trying to show him he was serious.

Finally, Sherlock nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

John couldn’t help but to smile a little in the moment. It was the first time Sherlock hadn’t asked questions or hadn’t tried to cast doubt on John’s authority.

_Well, maybe not the first time._

John had suddenly thought of the time he’d reprimanded Sherlock after he’d left the egg-shaped house to look at that dead body. After he’d finished his stern lecture, Sherlock’s young face had changed, the haughtiness that usually characterized it vaporizing into guilt and perhaps a little bit of fear.

“You could have died,” John had said to him, which had been the catalyst for the change in Sherlock’s expression. He hadn’t complained then. Just nodded solemnly, a ten-year-old boy with too much weight to carry on his shoulders. Immediately, the young doctor had relented and knelt down to hold him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I just want to keep you safe.”

In that moment, remembering the young Sherlock and the many hours John had dedicated to keeping the boy safe, he softened and wanted to wrap his arms around him again.

_I suppose he’s told old for things like that now_ , thought John. He settled on giving Sherlock a cheerful smile to let him know they were fine.

“All right,” he said, still smiling. “Give me your arm. Let’s check those vitals, and then, I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking we could do.”


End file.
